The London train was almost packed to capacity as it pulled out of Folkestone station. I had just managed to catch it having arrived just a few minutes earlier by hovercraft from Boulogne in northern France. At that time I was working in Paris having been seconded to my company's office there as an accounting supervisor and was about to enjoy my first weekend off since my arrival just over three months earlier. My timing was not the best, as the French air traffic controllers had gone on strike just two days before, but I was going to my favorite cousin's wedding that Saturday, so I was determined to make it there somehow. I had discovered that the Channel crossing took only thirty-five minutes by hovercraft and with the right train connections the total journey from Paris to London, city centre to city centre, would only take a few minutes longer than flying. I had already decided that I would overnight in London before taking a morning train to Southampton, arriving well in time for the wedding which was scheduled for two o'clock the following afternoon. My overnight stay was facilitated by the use of the company's apartment which was luckily vacant that weekend and to which I had the key in my hot little hand, figuratively speaking.
My plans had been somewhat derailed, so to speak, by the fact that the train from Paris to Boulogne had been delayed because of track maintenance and I had just missed my scheduled departure by hovercraft. I had to wait almost an hour for the next one, so I had arrived in Folkestone just seven minutes before the 7.59 to Charing Cross would leave. I would have hated to have missed it as that would have meant a further hour's wait, so I hurried through the green channel at Customs, praying I wouldn't be challenged, and indeed I managed to escape without further scrutiny, perhaps because I was traveling with only an overnight bag. I scooted on to the train and started looking for a place to sit. It took me ten minutes of wandering through the corridors before I found a compartment with a vacant seat. I threw my bag on the luggage rack and plopped down into the seat, somewhat breathlessly.
It was then that I noticed her. She was sitting in the seat opposite to me and I was so anxious to find a seat that I had only seen the men in suits occupying the other seats in the compartment. Now, while I am no ladies man, I definitely have a healthy interest in the fairer sex, and know a pretty girl when I see one, and I knew I was looking at one right in front of my eyes. Actually that's an understatement, akin to calling the Atlantic Ocean a pond, for this one was stunningly beautiful!
She was absorbed in a paperback, which I recognized as being written by one of my favorite authors, and I waited for an opportunity to strike up a conversation with her, even though conversation was not one of my strong points, which goes a long way towards explaining why, at thirty-five I was still unmarried and unattached. There were two things holding me back from talking to her, the first being that there was no conversation going on at all in the compartment with all the other occupants apparently reading their newspapers or in a couple of cases nodding off to sleep. The second reason was that the lady concerned did seem to be fully occupied reading her book.
I decided to read the paper I had picked up to pass the time while waiting for the hovercraft. Normally when traveling over land, whether by rail or by bus, I like to look at the passing scenery, but by now it was nearly dark and I wasn't able to see much out of the carriage windows. I should have said I decided to pretend to read the paper, for by that means I was able to surreptitiously study the lady passenger more closely without appearing to be ogling her, which of course was exactly what I was doing. At one stage, the train shuddered and she looked up from her book to see me looking at her. We made brief eye contact, which if I had been more experienced at picking up women would have been a sufficient opening to take. I blushed a little with the embarrassment of being discovered peeking at her and I thought I detected a brief smile pass over her lips before she quickly resumed reading her book.
The light in the carriage wasn't the best but it did enable me to see that my first impression of her was correct. I guessed that she was about thirty, maybe a little less and her face was beautiful, flawless from my vantage point, with just a hint of eye shadow and rouge and bright red lipstick applied sparingly. Her auburn hair framed her face beautifully, falling just short of shoulder length. She wore a navy blue dress, with a high neckline and the hem just past her knees. She had crossed her legs, which were slender and shapely and I saw that the matching shoes had stiletto heels. I wasn't able to see much of her upper body, but as far as I could see she seemed to have nicely shaped breasts.
We were on the evening express, traveling non-stop to London and it seemed the ninety minute journey was really much shorter than that. The time passed so quickly and the train pulled into Charing Cross station at exactly 9.30 without any opportunity to engage the mysterious beauty in any conversation whatsoever. She was traveling even lighter than I was and she rose to leave carrying what seemed to be just a vanity case. I opened the sliding door for her and she shot a brief smile at me, murmuring her thanks as she stepped out of the compartment into the corridor. She slipped out of sight before I was able to retrieve my bag from the rack and I chalked it up as a lost opportunity, for I felt sure I would never see her again.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I felt a tug on my sleeve as I walked towards the exit and heard a feminine voice saying, "Excuse me, can I ask you something?"
I turned and saw her standing there. For a moment I was dumbstruck, but managed to gather my thoughts enough to answer, "Of course. What is it?"
"Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but I need a drink, and I hate to drink alone. Would you be kind enough to have a drink with me?"
What could I say? This was the best opportunity I would ever get, and I was in no hurry to get to an empty apartment. "Of course," I said, "I'd be delighted. I think I could use a drink myself."
I offered her my free arm and we walked together the short distance to the station bar, which fortunately was still open and even more fortunately was sparsely populated. We found a table close to the door and almost immediately a waiter was hovering to take our order.
"So what would you like?" I asked.
"Oh, a large gin and tonic, please, with lemon."
"OK, and I'll have a calvados, please," I said, ordering my current favorite, which I had acquired a taste for since my arrival in Paris. The waiter hurried away and I turned back to look at my lovely companion. "So, if I may ask, what brings you to London and why were you in such desperate need of a drink? Oh, by the way, I'm Jack," I said, holding out my hand.
She took my hand in a surprisingly firm grip, and held it for a few moments longer than seemed necessary, "I'm Janis," she replied, "and to answer your question, I'm in deep trouble!"
"Oh? What kind of trouble?" I asked, my stomach sinking at her words.
"I'm engaged to be married in six weeks, and I'm in love!"
"That doesn't sound like trouble to me, unless you have an aversion to marriage."
"Oh, it's trouble all right," she said, pausing while the waiter brought our drinks with the bill. She lifted her glass to me and I returned the gesture, while she took a long swallow from her glass.
"Cheers!" I said. "You were saying?"
"Quite simply put, it's real trouble because the man I'm in love with is not the same man I'm supposed to marry!"
"Ah, now I understand," I said sympathetically. "So how did that happen?" I asked.
"Well, I've been working for a pharmaceutical company in Paris for the last six weeks, and about three weeks ago I met this guy at a reception. We got to talking and it was obvious that he was as attracted to me as I was to him. We started dating and last weekend we realized that we were in love."